Death hits the fan (16 page)

"Not consciously," he answered finally. "But unconsciously . . ." He shrugged again. "I remember her reading Ted Brown's book and being excited—she loved the alien idea—but just remember, Brown wasn't the first either. There were Adams and Smith before him. And you see, she knew she could write it better. Better than any of them. And she did.

"And it wasn't just the writing. She groomed herself, changed her whole appearance. She went at publicity with a military sense of strategy. She even took diction training. And she made it."

Scott stopped speaking for a while and we finished our fruitcakes, savoring the flavors, Shayla's favorite flavors.

"Will there be a funeral?" Wayne finally asked, gently, softly.

Scott shook his head.

"Shayla was adamant on that," he told us. "No more publicity after she was dead." Scott smiled, his eyes defocusing. "Shayla hated the publicity after a while. She did it because she had to. Shayla once said that Salman Rushdie was lucky on one point. At least he didn't have to do any more publicity events."

He laughed, but there were tears in his eyes.

When Scott's smile dimmed and Rococo began to whine, we rose to leave.

"Find the killer," Scott told us at the door. And then he and his dogs were gone.

I took one last look back at the lovely house Scott had

built for his wife, the woman he loved, and tears sprang up in my own eyes. For Scott. Not for Shayla.

"Psst!" a voice said at my shoulder.

I turned, expecting to see Yvette, but the woman at my side had to be twice her age, wrinkled, with bright raisin-black eyes and sparse white curls brushed over her pink scalp. She leaned on an aluminum walker.

"Please find out who killed her," the old woman whispered. "It pains Scott so."

And then the woman turned and hobbled away on her walker just as abruptly as she had appeared.

"Sadie?" I shouted out.

She turned.

"We'll try," I told her.

She smiled and then made her way back onto the sidewalk and into her own house next door.

Wayne and I made our own way to the sidewalk carefully and cautiously. I wondered if he felt as fragile as I did. As fragile as Sadie. As fragile as Scott.

At the gate, we looked at each other and shared a quick, tight embrace.

As we broke apart, I saw Scott's next visitor coming up the sidewalk. It was Felix Byrne, our own pit bull of a reporter.

I shook my head. It was useless to try to head him off.

But it wasn't until we stepped onto the sidewalk ourselves that I saw Yvette Cassell, crouched behind a bush, ready to spring.

Twelve

His I watched Yvette skulking in the bushes, I wondered if Felix had contacted her yet. I didn't have long to wonder. Felix was only a yard away from us now.

"Hey, Felix!" I greeted him with a shout.

Only a blink showed his surprise at seeing us. I'd hoped for more. I was tempted to slap him on the back. Years of tai chi practice had given me a backslapping technique that could be extremely dangerous for the slappee, and extremely satisfying for the slapper. I reminded myself of the principles of tai chi. Ethics can sure ruin a lot of fun.

"Yvette Cassell," I told him instead. "She's—"

"Hey, were you just putting me on about that friggin' woman?" he demanded. "She's as hard to find as the Bill of Rights at a political convention, man. I've searched everywhere in the known universe and—"

"She's right over there," I whispered, pointing behind the bush.

Death Hits the Fan 137

"That gremlin's her?" he breathed. "Holy socks! Why's she hiding behind the friggin' foliage?"

"You're a reporter," I told him. "Why don't you find out?"

He looked at Yvette. Then he looked toward Scott Green's door. He pulled on his mustache, meditating. I could imagine his dilemma. Who to harry first? So many victims, so little time.

"Bye, Felix," I said. And Wayne and I took off down the street. It's painful to watch a pit bull in a state of ambivalence.

"Fu-fuddin' right..." rang down the street after us a few moments later.

Then, ". . . but that's friggin' insane," in a deeper tone. Felix had picked Yvette. I was right. They were a match made in heaven. Well, maybe not heaven, actually.

When Wayne and I got home, there was a strange beige Honda parked in our driveway. And a man sitting in the car.

I pulled my Toyota past the Honda carefully. There was just enough room in the gravel driveway to park two cars side by side. And if I was lucky, this time I wouldn't knock down the little path-light I'd spent almost two hours setting back up the last time I'd knocked it over. When I got close enough, I saw that the man in the car was Dean Frazier.

Dean got out of his car slowly, his face looking strained as well as weathered beneath his gray beard.

"Was Scott okay?" he asked urgently but quietly, once we'd exited our own car.

"Why don't you come in?" I countered. How could I answer a question like that? Of course Scott wasn't "okay."

"No, no," Dean insisted, holding up his hands. "Don't want to be a nuisance. Matter of fact, I was just now wondering if I should bother you folks at all—"

"Fine." Wayne cut his apology short. "No problem."

I was grateful for Wayne's brusque delivery. At this rate

we were going to spend a lot of time in the driveway talking to a man too polite to come into our house, while pinned uncomfortably between two very closely parked cars.

"I was just concerned about Scott," Dean told us in a whisper. "He's been so . . ."

"Angry," I filled in helpfully. Anything to speed things up.

"Yes," Dean agreed, nodding emphatically. "Angry. Scott's usually an incredibly gentle human being. Lord, he treats those dogs of his like they're children, but now he .. . he almost frightens me."

I nodded. And a dozen questions I should have asked myself earlier filled my mind. Like, why wasn't Dean talking to Scott directly? Had Shayla been their verbal link in emotional times? Or—

"I cared for Shayla too, but not like Scott did," Dean went on. "I'm afraid for him . . ."

As a matter of fact, I thought, I had some questions about Scott too. Why hadn't he told us less and asked us more? If he really wanted to find out who murdered his wife and kill the perpetrator himself, then why hadn't he interrogated us? Dean must have told him that Shayla had called out my name.

"What was it that was so inherently lovable about Shayla?" Wayne asked Dean, and I came back to earth, or to gravel, anyway. It felt warm here between the two cars, too warm. Too intimate.

Dean pulled his head back as if surprised by the question.

"Why, Shayla, she was . . ." He paused to think for a moment. "She was witty and full of ideas. They came rolling out of her so fast, you had to run to keep up with her. I'm a little slower. And she loved Scott so."

"Weren't you ever jealous?" I asked, tired of the endless recital of Shayla's virtues by these two men.

"I expect so, if I'm honest with myself," he murmured. "I always knew Scott loved her more than he loved me. But

then, I cared a great deal for her too, so it worked out pretty well, all things considered. It was like a triangle, the bonds went all ways."

I was searching my mind for a segue into the question of access to poisons and syringes at the hospice where Dean and Scott had met. But Dean wasn't finished talking yet.

"I just worry, though, that.. . that..." Dean paused, then took a great breath in, and let out something close to a shout, as much as a man like Dean Frazier could shout. "I do believe Scott suspects me!"

"You?"

Of course, I realized. It would be awful if Scott did suspect Dean. But it wouldn't necessarily be illogical. Still, I was surprised that Dean would voice his concern aloud.

"I've offered to stay with Scott, but he won't have it. He talks to me on the phone, but he won't accept my comfort. It's as if he's alone. Good God, I'm grieving too. And he doesn't seem to comprehend that. I just—"

Dean stopped mid-sentence. From between the two cars I could hear a crow cawing and kids shouting as they skate-boarded past.

"I must apologize," he told us, staring at the gravel. "I don't know why I'm burdening you with this. I didn't kill Shayla, you know. I expect it looks bad, me being an anesthesiologist and all, but I most certainly did not kill her."

And damn if I didn't believe him.

"You know, Scott still cares for you," I told him gently. "He's just hurt."

"I expect it's possible," Dean replied, unconvinced. "I'll just have to think on it."

"He smiled when I said your name," I added.

"Really?" he whispered, face coming up.

"He said he'd go crazy if it weren't for you." I piled it on. I was pretty sure that Scott had said something like that.

"Oh, thank you," Dean breathed, his weathered face

beaming. He grabbed my hand in his and held it for a moment. "I'll go straight to Scott's. He might be needing me terribly."

Wayne and I got out of the way as Dean pulled his Honda from our driveway.

Once he was gone, I turned to Wayne.

"Did I just cheer up a murderer?" I asked.

But before Wayne could answer my question, another car drove up. At least this one parked on the street.

An elegant, brown-skinned woman in a mauve suit climbed out. It was my friend Ann Rivera.

"Hey, you guys," she greeted us and grinned.

That toothy grin always looked so funny on her ever-so-professional face that I couldn't help smiling back.

She walked up the driveway and gave us both hugs.

"Barbara told me I oughta check in with you two," she said once she was finished. The hug felt good. That was one Marin ritual I endorsed. At least from a real friend.

"Barbara?" I said, suddenly surprised that my psychic friend, Barbara Chu, hadn't checked in with me herself by now.

"Yeah," Ann replied. "About the murder you're involved in. Sometimes I wonder, Kate, what it is that gets you into these . .." She stared at me for a moment before shaking her head and going on. "Anyway, she thought I might be able to help you with at least one of the smaller mysteries."

"But how does Barbara know—"

I stopped myself mid-question. My friend Barbara was psychic, or at least sporadically psychic. Or something. She always knew everything, everything except little things like the identities of murderers. But still, I needed to talk to her soon.

"What smaller mystery?" I asked instead as we walked up the stairs.

"Wayne, you gonna cook me an early dinner?" Ann asked, turning to my sweetie. She hadn't become a hospital

administrator on her dressed-for-success looks alone. She was one smart woman.

"Sure," he began. "At your—"

Then we both remembered Ingrid.

"Wait a sec," I ordered and ran up the front stairs, opened the door, and peeked in the living room.

The living room was empty, though Ingrid's luggage was still present. I took in a happy breath and gave Wayne a thumbs-up signal.

"Be glad to cook you dinner, anytime," he told Ann. He even treated her to a graceful waiter's bow.

"What smaller mystery?" I repeated as we all walked into the house and settled down in the kitchen, Ann and I at the table, Wayne bustling around from refrigerator to counter to stove. Damn, it felt good to have our house back, for however short a respite. The sun was filtering in through the window over the sink; the neighborhood sounds drifted in too, sans Ingrid's voice, and my ancient kitchen chair felt warm and comfortable—

"Remember the professional-women's success seminar we went to about ten years ago?" Ann asked as a bunch of scallions flew by in Wayne's hands, followed by some fresh basil. I knew it would be a good dinner. Wayne had to be as starved to cook as to eat after all the Whol-ios we'd shared with Ingrid. He lived to cook. And Scott's excellent meal had probably just whetted his appetite.

I brought my mind back to Ann and away from salivary meal-anticipation. Though it was hard to ignore the fragrance of sizzling garlic and ginger that floated enticingly from the stove.

"You mean that seminar in the city, where we all learned techniques to make ourselves Rich and Powerful?" I asked. I tried not to sneer. Ann might be close to rich and powerful, but I was still in gag-gifts and dressed for recess.

"Yeah," Ann prompted, grinning again. "And remember who was in it?"

Wayne was chopping eggplant now. How had he hidden fresh eggplant from Ingrid? And from me?

I yanked my mind back once more. Who had been in the seminar? I was having a hard time remembering. It'd been so long ago.

"You," I said. It was a start. "Me ..."

"And Shirley Green," Ann finished for me just as Wayne produced mushrooms and onions. And marinated seitan. Did the refrigerator have a secret compartment I didn't know about?

Suddenly, the name clicked.

"Shirley Green!" I shouted, food forgotten. I stood up from my chair. "S.X. Greenfree. Shay la Greenfree, Shirley Green. Dean told me she'd changed her name, but..."

"But what?" Ann asked.

"But S.X. Greenfree was majestic, sleek—"

"A swan, not a duckling," Ann suggested.

That was it. all right. Shirley Green had been tall and slender, it was true. But she had worn heavy glasses, had a frizzy perm, and her shoulders slumped. When had she transformed herself? When had she straightened those shoulders and switched to contact lenses? When had she switched to a better hairdresser, for that matter? My mind's eye held a photo of the old Shirley over a photo of the new Shayla and sure enough, they matched. If you put on enough makeup.

"How'd you make the connection?" I asked Ann in awe.

"She was in my primary group, remember?" Ann answered. I nodded, though actually, I could barely remember the seminar at all. "She was calling herself Shirley Green then, but she told me her pen name was S.X. Greenfree and she was thinking of changing Shirley to Shayla, so I knew who she was when her first book came out."

"Wow," I murmured. "What a relief. Now I know why—"

But I stopped myself. So I had known Shirley Green ten years ago. So what?